


at some point, we'll have to figure this out

by doofusface



Category: Mr. Iglesias (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, High School, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Homecoming, Humor, School Dances, spoiler alert marisol DOES care about homecoming, we love these weirdos yes we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: Eventually, Marisol will have to acknowledge the (glaringly) obvious:-she is fully affected by this homecoming thing-she isonlyfully affected because Mikey hasn'taskedher yet
Relationships: Drip Tray Musketeers & Gabe Iglesias, Marisol Fuentes & Grace Lee & Lorenzo Webber & Walt Dobbs & Mikey Gutierrez & Gabe Iglesias, Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez
Comments: 16
Kudos: 124





	at some point, we'll have to figure this out

**Author's Note:**

> nothing saddens me more than the fact that "[all the kids] & gabe" cannot fit in the relationships tag
> 
> anyway YALL S2 SOON DOEEEE GET HYPED FOR THAT PLOT ARC

There it is.

Big, bright, sparkling letters, on a banner Marisol now hates more than life itself.

**_HOMECOMING IS IN [61] DAYS!_ **

“Didn’t we just start school?” Lorenzo says from behind her, already ramping up. “When did they even have time to make that thing?”

“Homecoming committee is made up of honors kids, and honors kids pay someone else to do it for them,” Grace says, shrugging. She nudges Marisol. “Did he ask you yet?”

Marisol does the kind thing: she shakes her head, and picks up her pace. “Nope, and we’re not having this conversation.”

Grace catches up. “Why not?”

“Because you asked me yesterday, and Walt asked me the day before, and Lorenzo asked me the day before _that_ , and ever since the block party, literally the only one leaving me alone is _him_.” _Huff_ _,_ and a deep breath. _Step_ , and another.

Junior year be startin’ off _real_ well.

“Are you…” Grace squints, looking back at Walt and Lorenzo before she smirks at her friend. “Are you _upset?_ That Mikey’s been ignoring you?” she says, barely stopping a laugh. 

“Dang, you like Mikey?” Walt says, immediately, with an even bigger smirk, like someone with a death wish.

“Deadass?” Lorenzo asks, laughing and latching on to Marisol’s shoulder. “You do?”

“ _Ohmy_ _—_ ” Marisol _tch_ s, shrugging him off. “—bye. Forever.” She turns, walking backward and making simple hand gestures at them. “No follow. Stop. Stay.”

“I take offense to that!” Lorenzo calls.

“I don’t!” Walt yells.

Marisol thinks, _End me_ , slings her backpack on her seat, and glares at the empty top of her table until well-past the time Mr. Iglesias enters the room.

(He’d said hi, as per usual, but the energy in the room said _Do Not Engage Further_ , so off to prepping the whiteboard with miscellaneous dates it is.)

She finally cares to move a few minutes before the bell rings—when Mikey sits down beside her, like normal, like routine.

Except he doesn’t even look at her, like weird, like _off_.

He takes out a notebook, a pen, and hunkers down on his desk, ready to listen once the bell rings.

And she thinks, _Huh._

And that’s how it all gets worse.

* * *

**[59] DAYS**

Lorenzo sends her a Reddit thread about a guy being pushed away by his girlfriend and Marisol _briefly_ —like, one second—considers blocking his number.

(Un-musketeer-like, so the thought is cancelled and forgotten.)

Walt throws a note at her table when Mr. Iglesias steps out to talk to Principal Madison about something, and Mikey doesn’t even look up from his textbook.

Hellish. This is _hellish_.

This _waiting_. _Taunting_.

Walt’s note is a kissy face and a bunch of M’s in the shape of a heart.

Marisol stares him down, folding the note neatly and shoving it in her pocket.

Walt raises a brow.

Marisol drags her thumb across her neck.

Walt doesn’t budge. He puckers his lips at her, determined to be buried in this classroom.

“—and that’s why you love it here!” Mr. Iglesias says from the doorway, closing the door behind him. He turns to the class. “Uh. Why does it feel like an opening scene of _Law & Order _in here?”

Marisol raises her hand. “Can I have the hall pass?”

“…Will that lessen the vibe?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Iglesias bows, arms gestured out the door. “ _Madame_ _._ ”

* * *

(The door’s almost shut before Mikey finally glances up.)

* * *

**[52] DAYS**

“Wasn’t the block party last July?” Mr. Iglesias asks, frowning at his non-communicative students during a high-communication required activity.

(Just the two. 

You know. 

_Those_ two.)

“Yep,” Grace says, shrugging.

They’ve got a great vantage point from the back of the class, with the added cover of a paired-up project really making this interesting.

“So why hasn’t he said anything yet?”

Rakeem pretends to point at something on Grace’s laptop. Because productivity. “Dunno. Barely talks to anyone anymore.”

Mr. Iglesias gapes at him. “ _Anyone?_ ”

Grace and Rakeem nod.

He goes down to a whisper. “Is someone bullying him?”

“Nah,” Rakeem says, pointing at something for real. Grace copies the text to their file. “He had a shot at the party, but someone was talking to her about Stanford and he bailed.”

“Oh.”

“Huh?” Grace says, scrunching up her face. “Why?”

“Well,” Mr. Iglesias starts, clicking his tongue, “he’s been studying more. Like, suuuper focused. And he said something about taking a ‘break’ from _Fortnite_.”

“…So?”

 _Stare._ “…Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

Marisol stops before she can start a conversation, and for all her lowkey secondhand embarrassment at Mikey’s awkward outbursts, she really wishes they’d have been back by now. All she gets back from him when she lists off what they’re supposed to be researching are nods and the occasional _Okay_.

Even rarer, if he accidentally looks at her, is a pause and a slight floundering, a gulp, a deep breath as he cuts the eye contact abruptly.

This stinks.

She misses the old Mikey.

* * *

**[48] DAYS**

“Did I do something?” Marisol asks pointedly, the light clang of the lockers echoing where she’d rammed into it.

 _Clang, click_ , as Mikey closes his locker. He frowns. “What?” 

“Did I,” she repeats, gesturing to herself, “do something. To you.” She raises her brows. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so—”

“No, you didn’t, um,” he says, looking at the ground. His shoulders slump. “Sorry. I can switch with Grace if it bothers you.”

 _What?_ “What?” she frowns, reaching for his shoulder. She tries to laugh. “Mikey, for once you’re _not_ bothering m—”

He dodges her. “Cool, um,” he says, but Marisol hears the slight crack in his voice. “I gotta go, though, _Fortnite_ club—”

And he’s gone, swallowed by the sea of students.

And she knows—she still hears it— _she knows_ just how badly she messed that up.

* * *

He switches with Rakeem, because while Grace is fine with talking, she still prefers messing with teachers from as far as possible.

Marisol’s stuck with him in her peripheral.

It’s her own purgatory.

* * *

**[47] DAYS**

It’s nice and sunny at the bleachers after school, and Marisol decides, _yes, this is where I wanna suffer for the next ten minutes before I leave for my shift._

Grace taps her shoulder.

Marisol humors her, because nothing else is funny. “Yeah?”

“Why do you care so much that he doesn’t talk to you?” Grace says, and it sounds so much like Mr. Iglesias that she’s gonna have to have a talk with her teacher about meddling.

“Because he’s my friend.”

“Who hasn’t asked you to homecoming.”

 _Shrug_. “I don’t care about homecoming.”

“Wow, lie.” Pause. “…Mr. Iglesias talked to him, you know.”

Marisol kicks at the metal under her feet. “Don’t think it helped.”

“He was super dodgy.”

“Can’t be worse than accidentally confirming that he bothers me.” _Wince_ , because she remembers it, and because it’s only a little bit true.

Grace’s eyes go wide. “You said—” She shakes her head. “Another day for that hot mess. Anyway. Do you remember the block party?”

( _Does she remember the block party._

Does the Earth revolve around the Sun?)

Marisol replies with a spineless glare.

“Alright, alright, don’t shoot the messenger,” Grace says, scooting back. “I just think that had something to do with it.”

Marisol quirks a brow. “The party itself?”

“Maybe. Or the lady talking to you about Stanford? I don’t know—”

* * *

Wait.

* * *

“The lady…” Marisol trails off, brows knitting. “And he quit _Fortnite_ , so…” 

_Ding!_

“I gotta go,” she says, grabbing her stuff and booking it. “Work! But I’ll text you!”

* * *

Grace yells, “WHY WON’T SOMEONE JUST EXPLAIN?!”

* * *

**[45] DAYS**

She’s not trying to think of a way to help because she likes him.

She just misses her friend.

* * *

**[44] DAYS**

“It’s not bad to like attention,” Mr. Iglesias says, taking lunch _inside_ the McDonald’s for once. “And at your age, it’s a drug.”

“Okay,” Marisol says, cap off because she’s not on-duty, “but does it mean I—my friend…like, likes someone? If _she_ likes the attention they give her? Hypothetically.”

“I think twenty minutes on a super specific hypothetical question basically proves you’re hiding something,” Mr. Iglesias says, smirking. 

Marisol shrugs weakly, glancing away.

“…Listen. Mikey’s a good kid.” 

(She hates being read like an open book sometimes.)

“So are you. You could do a lot worse than a guy with a good, loyal heart. But,” he pauses, giving a sad smile, “nobody can tell you who to like, and who not to like. That’s all you. And that means—”

Marisol nods. “—I have to figure it out.”

He grins, picking up his drink. _Slurp._ “I am _good_.”

“You know Diet Coke is worse, right?”

“ _Shhhh_ _._ ”

* * *

**[43] DAYS**

Friend. Doing this for her friend.

The one who asks if she needs help carrying anything after class, or instinctively steps to the splash zone of a cafeteria accident to take the hit.

That friend.

Her good friend.

* * *

Someone on the cheer squad gets asked to homecoming in the middle of a pep rally and all she can do is look over at Mikey, sitting three seats over beside Lorenzo and Rita.

He doesn’t even turn her way.

* * *

(She used to like having “breaks” from him constantly being at her side, but this just feels…wrong.

Breaks were temporary. Short.

Always with the promise of something returning to its rightful place.

Someone, maybe.

Always resetting before you could miss it.)

* * *

**[42] DAYS**

Her phone’s been so quiet after school.

* * *

There’s a Comic Sans-infused email from school admin about upcoming events in her inbox and she stares at it with dread.

Something about there not being a notification popping up right above it, reminding her about what she _used_ to be afraid of. Something with the wrong name and the wrong message—Walt asking for help on a math problem— _ding_ ing into place.

Something about thinking incessantly about a conversation she was so sure was going to happen, but now… 

What was she going to say?

“No”?

* * *

(She wonders why a school function she originally planned on skipping for work is suddenly looking like an enticing vacation.

 _If_ someone asks her.)

* * *

**[41] DAYS**

Mikey’s pen drops from his pocket on their way out of class, and she gives him a smile as she hands it to him.

For a second, it’s his old self again, and that adoring smile plastered across his face makes something weird happen to her insides for—well, not really the _first_ time, but the first time she notices it’s _not_ supposed to be normal.

Grace walks past them like nothing happened and when Mikey follows, she almost grabs his hand.

* * *

Someone from her compsci class asks her to the dance and she says no, which is fully illogical because she doesn’t even like anyone, and she’s fully intent on going, and the guy’s cute, smart, and an upperclassman.

* * *

(Clearly, that old conversation wasn’t going to end with a “no”.)

* * *

But still, she doesn’t have a problem.

Turning down other guys does _not_ mean she has a problem.

* * *

**[40] DAYS**

Ugh. 

Fine.

* * *

“ _I mean, c'mon—you never really shot him down_ _,_ ” Lorenzo tells her on the phone after she’d decided the next best person to ask is the one in a stable relationship. (Even if said stable relationship is with freakin’ _Rita_.)

Marisol scoffs, because that can’t be true. “I have! Plenty of times!”

“ _Girl, I’ve seen you flat-out reject guys before. You gave Rakeem the death glare that one time! You never pull any of that with Mikey._ ”

 _Well_. “He’s _Mikey_. I just do it…gently.”

“ _Seriously_ _._ ” Lorenzo snorts. “ _You think you’re not into him? Like, have you seen your face when he says stuff about you?_ ”

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a mirror on your shirt, so no, actually.”

“ _Ha! I’ll bring one tomorrow!_ ”

“ _Dude_.”

Lorenzo cackles. “ _It’s all love, Marisol. It’s all love._ ”

 _Yeah_ , she thinks.

_That’s exactly what it is._

* * *

**[39] DAYS**

Marisol makes a group chat on Discord and waits five hours for everyone to wake up and show up, because it’s a) the weekend and b) 6AM.

(There is a problem she is acknowledging and that should be enough to explain!)

Walt’s on at 10, because he actually likes to go out on Saturdays, and his first message is: _SO DO U LIKE MIKEY OR WHAT?????_

To which she replies: _I knew this was a bad idea_

* * *

**[37] DAYS**

Rakeem slides his chair closer to Marisol’s, and Mikey’s whole world stops.

Grace peeks over her laptop, eyes darting to Mikey and then to the new-ish seatmates. Lorenzo makes eye contact with her, and Walt fumbles his pen.

The stage is set.

* * *

“Grace,” Mikey calls, after class is dismissed and Marisol’s left for work. 

“Yep?”

He forgets his purpose in life. “Do you, uh—do you—you’re tight with Rakeem, right?”

Grace quirks a brow. “I’m his business partner, yes.”

“What’s his deal with Marisol?”

“Y’know,” she says, tapping her chin, “he hasn’t really said anything. We strictly talk shop—you get it, right?”

“Not really?” Mikey shakes his head. “But—”

“I mean, it doesn’t matter, right? ‘Cause you’re over her and all that.”

“—what?”

“You’re over Marisol,” Grace repeats, almost bored. “You don’t follow her around, you don’t sit with her…” she drawls, the tiniest smirk creeping in, “you didn’t ask her to homecoming, and she said you don’t even text her anymore—which is a super big step for you, by the way, congrats!”

Mikey twitches. “Um—”

Grace check her watch. “Oops. Gotta go. Need to make sure the commercial guys don’t get Rakeem’s bad side.” She nods at Mikey. “Later!”

* * *

“I don’t get why we couldn’t just go with my idea,” Marisol says over the voice chat for their new daily meetings. “It’s twenty steps less and way easier.”

“ _You really think Mikey’s gonna say yes if you ask him to homecoming?_ ” Walt says, scoffing. “ _Guys like us ask girls and get rejected. Maybe one’ll say yes, eventually. But_ no _girl would ask us out—that’s like, a_ major _red flag. Besides, Mikey’s a downer—no way he thinks he has a chance…_ ”

“Wow, that was surprisingly well thought out—and yet, perfectly self-deprecating.”

“ _Thanks, I’m working it into my next set_.”

“ _Are you adding the 5G thing?_ ” Lorenzo asks.

“ _People, eyes on the prize_ ,” Grace says, _clacking_ coming from her mic. “ _Operation ‘Get M &Ms to Homecoming’ is a go!_”

* * *

(Marisol did not sign off on that name, but like, what do you expect with these guys?)

* * *

**[25] DAYS**

Mikey cracks his pencil in two in the middle of class and it takes every AA self-discipline tip Mr. Iglesias has ever learned to not cackle.

It’s not an accident. There are two kids in the middle of the room who are _very_ close and _very_ flirty, and yeah, it makes him gag a little bit, but it’s _still funny_.

The move is straight out of a TV special, but if they all play their cards right, Mikey might hit his limit and actually _try_.

Marisol giggles at a joke from Rakeem and the latter nods at Mikey like he’s saying thank you.

Might as well be a setting for _Game of Thrones_ field battle, honestly.

Mr. Iglesias clears his throat to stop the laugh building up.

_Unleash the dragons._

* * *

(For the record, Marisol hates this and also hates every “move” Rakeem thinks is viable in the real world, and when this is over she’s going to punch him at _least_ twice.)

* * *

(Mikey pesters Walt about Rakeem and Marisol _all_ through lunch, and all he says in reply is, “Can’t blame a guy for shooting his shot.”

And, unfortunately, Mikey thinks: _Huh. Guess I can’t._ )

* * *

**[18] DAYS**

Marisol thinks, _This is almost worse than being transferred to honors._

Grace says, “So, I guess I’m saying…Walt ruined the plan.”

“I did not!” Walt says, flinging his arms up. “I didn’t! I was fueling the fire! Like you told me to!”

Marisol flicks his forehead.

“Ow!”

“You said he’s a downer!” she hisses. “You said that! Did you really think that would psych him up?!”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we have less than three weeks to homecoming, and my real date is getting real ticked off that this is still happening,” Rakeem says, getting agitated. “We gotta do something, and we gotta do it fast.”

“Deal,” Marisol says before anyone can cut in. “And I say we do my idea.”

“But we already talked about this,” Lorenzo says. “He’s too chicken to say yes.”

Marisol thinks for a moment.

A beat.

“…Actually,” she starts, a smile slowly spreading, “I think I have a compromise.”

* * *

**[14] DAYS**

Mikey wants to be run over by a truck, ASAP.

It’s all their class talks about, and it’s his own fault, too.

What’s a guppy doing swimming with the sharks anyway? Rakeem’s got game for days—years, even. He’s got the looks, the skill, the brains.

Mikey’s got…uh…

(Maybe he shouldn’t think about it so much.

For the best.)

Well, whatever he’s got, he’s a masochist—he’s been enduring the view of pain, watching Rakeem lean over Marisol’s locker and pull out all the stops.

There’s a dip into consolation territory when Rakeem finally leaves, and the look on Marisol’s face spells relief more than anything else.

 _Pero_ like, could just be him. Or the green monster.

He’s about to slink away in defeat when Lorenzo comes up to Marisol, and now she _definitely_ looks relieved: a big sigh and wide eyes full of sarcastic appreciation is all she can do, but before Mikey can step closer to…console—not eavesdrop—the bell rings.

High school timing is the worst timing.

* * *

Marisol fidgets with the ends of her overshirt. “You know what to say?”

“I’m king of this stuff,” Lorenzo says, smirking. “I’ma have him convinced like I had Ms. Spencer on my side about the JFK shooters.”

“That does not give me hope.”

“Girl, will you leave it to me?” Lorenzo frowns, pushing her off to a branch in the hallway. “I got this. Go keep a perfect attendance record.”

“I appreciate you, and I’m telling Rita you’re basically a national hero,” Marisol says, pointing at him as she leaves. “A freakin’ national treasure!”

Lorenzo salutes.

And when he speeds on back to his next class—trig, with and beside Mikey—he doesn’t even bother with a preamble.

“Dude, you will not believe what Marisol told me about the Rocket,” he whispers, a little somber.

That gets Romeo’s attention.

Mikey sits up straight, ignoring Mrs. de la Rosa’s frantic writing on the board. “What’s up?”

“He annoys her,” Lorenzo says, stifling a laugh. He clears his throat and politely says, “Here!” for the roll-call, but the second the problems on the board resurface as the stars of the show, he nudges Mikey’s arm. “Get this,” he whispers, a little too loud.

“Mr. Webber, if I turn around, will you be talking, or writing this down?” Mrs. de la Rosa says, the marker paused mid-letter.

Lorenzo coughs. “Writing, ma’am.”

“Good.” _Scribble_.

Lorenzo turns back to the board and starts writing, and for a second Mikey thinks the conversation’s over until the bell rings, but:

 _Tear, crinkle_ , and a tiny, muted _plop_ of the edge of a notebook page finds itself on Mikey’s own notebook.

Mikey hears everything and nothing all at once—his heartbeat, the chalk, someone yelling in the hallway, the clock. 

He opens the note. Spreads it flat.

He stops breathing when he reads his own name.

_She said: “I just wish he was Mikey.”_

* * *

(His hand goes straight up, and something like “resort room” comes out of his mouth, but it’s too late. Mrs. de la Rosa’s pissed when she turns and sees the note float down the side of his table, so he’s stuck there, waiting in pure agony until study hall starts up.

He swears to hate trigonometry for the rest of his life.)

* * *

“All clear?” Marisol asks, speeding into the classroom.

She knows for a fact they all have the same block of time for it, _and_ that Mr. Iglesias doesn’t have a class, so it’s perfect. Walt’s hiding behind the desk with Rakeem’s phone (it’s the best one, aight?), Grace has the little “presents” by the chalkboard, and Rakeem’s doing his pregame hype dance by the door.

She really hopes this works.

Mr. Iglesias gives her a thumbs up—something he’s been doing a lot lately. “Should be here any second.”

“Lorenzo just texted,” Grace says, waving to shush them. “They had to talk to Mrs. de la Rosa after class, but they’re coming now.” She puts a hand over Marisol’s clasped ones. “Don’t make him pass out.”

“That’s a weird way of wishing someone good luck,” Mr. Iglesias says, tilting his head.

“Standard Grace, though,” Marisol says to her friend with a thankful smile. “I got this. Thanks for the help.”

“Rolling!” Walt calls out, and it’s back to center classroom for Marisol and Rakeem.

“If you try anything, I’m cutting you,” Marisol says, dead serious.

Rakeem puts his hands up before using one to cross his heart. “Bro code. Would never.”

Marisol shakes it off—that feeling of nervousness, of this not working, of Mikey quitting before he even starts. It doesn’t belong with her anymore, not here.

She glances at his desk, to her left.

If there’s anything she’s learned about him, he tries, if you let him.

She lets out a long breath.

_And I just gave him the brightest green light._

* * *

**[13] DAYS**

“What? No cheering? Nothing? No side comments at all?” Mr. Iglesias says, arms up in confusion as he addresses the class. 

Walt shrugs. “We cheered yesterday. Now it’s just old news.”

“High school speed, Mr. Iglesias,” Lorenzo says, leaning back like he’s bored. “The only thing that still matters is Rakeem’s sprained shoulder.”

 _Unbelievable_ , Mr. Iglesias thinks, shaking his head. He shoots a look at the two to his right, with their hands intertwined on top of their desks. “No PDA.”

“Hand-holding’s allowed,” Mikey says.

“He checked,” Marisol snorts. She turns to her boyfriend. “You know, you could’ve had straight A’s by now if you applied yourself like that for _school_ , right?”

Mikey tilts his head. “…Huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Baby steps,” Grace says, waving a hand dismissively. “The guy needs incentives.” She grins. _Wickedly_. “You should—”

“ _I’m not threatening him with a break up so he studies harder_ ,” Marisol says, mostly talking to the ceiling. “We _just_ cleared up the Stanford thing. Stop scaring him like that.”

“…Just a suggestion.”

“I can threaten him for you,” Rakeem grumbles.

“No threatening!” Mr. Iglesia says, losing control of his class by the millisecond. 

“Mr. I, Mikey sprained my shoulder!” Rakeem says, his good arm outstretched. “I should be allowed at least one little threat!”

“No! That’s not how this works!”

“Hey, how come Mikey didn’t get suspended for that?” Walt asks.

“It was an accident!” Mikey half-yells, looking at his classmates for reassurance. 

(Marisol squeezes his hand.)

“Yeah, sure,” Lorenzo scoffs. “That’s what you want us to think, so next time someone gets on your bad side they won’t know you can _toss them across the room_.”

“I didn’t toss him, he’s like two hundred pounds!”

“Then how’d you sprain his shoulder!”

“…Yeah, we don’t need to talk about the Civil War today,” Mr. Iglesias sighs, walking to the door as the other kids join in on the bickering. “One win’s enough for the week.”

* * *

**REWIND: [14] DAYS**

Mikey ignores Lorenzo.

He ignores Grace and Mr. Iglesias chatting in front of the classroom—their history classroom, and the room where they hunker down to study during free periods like this.

He doesn’t even knock—the lights are on when he throws the door open (a swing a little too strong that nicks Whitney as she passes), and he beelines it for Marisol.

Which, unfortunately, means he rams through Rakeem.

(Somewhere in the background, he vaguely hears the star player _thud_ and curse and _whine_ , but Mikey’s a little preoccupied to care.)

“Oh, that’s not good,” Marisol says, brows raised in surprised and eyes a little concerned. “Uhh, should w—”

And it’s not exactly graceful, when he kisses her, but it’s definitely cinematic. He’s got a hand on her side and another cupping her cheek and he’s leaning her back, like what is this, a war drama? Did he just return from the jungles of Vietnam or whatever country the U.S. insists on invading for no reason?

(And okay, Walt had to slap a hand over his mouth to not curse too loud, and the other three accomplices are cramming in to peek through the window, and Rakeem’s _definitely_ not okay, but Marisol?

Marisol is _living_.)

It’s a few seconds long, but it’s a _time_. Something _POPS_ in the background, and it brings them back to the present.

 _Blink._ Mikey looks like he forgot what his mission was. “Um, sorr—”

“Nope,” Marisol cuts him off, and her hands on his face pull him back in.

* * *

(Suffice it to say, not much studying gets done.)

* * *

(Oh, and yeah—the _Mikey, will you go to homecoming with me?_ sign and confetti shower pretty much got their answer.)

**Author's Note:**

> in case if you, like me, are obtuse abt everything: yes, mikey thought he wasn't good enough/would bring marisol down and was trying to study harder to prove himself
> 
> kudos n comments always appreciated!!
> 
> stay home, my friends <3 God bless fam!
> 
> @ doofwrites on the twit and the tumbls ayo


End file.
